09:48:14, Saturday, 27th May 1329.

Eve of the Feast of Pentecost.

Town of Douglas, Scotland.

Teeth ripped and tore as the taut fibres parted. Dust billowed, and a growling roar echoed around the workshop. In the half-light of dawn, the carpenter and apprentice sawed the oaken tree trunk. At only 13 years of age, Liam lacked the strength of a man, so could only hold the saw blade upright to help to guide its path.

His young muscles slowly earned their strength as they drew and pushed upon the grip. The Master Carpenter flexed and relaxed much larger muscles as he forced the saw repeatedly through the deep groove they’d cut in the timber.

“Hold it straight, boy!” Master Colm called over the rumble of the blade as Liam let the tool flex slightly. The saw kicked as friction briefly jammed it in place. The huge man at the other end of the blade grunted as he heaved the handle back and reset his steady rhythm.

Back and forth, the serrated metal rocked until the end of the tree trunk fell to the floor with a resounding thump. Colm instructed Liam in tying a chain rig from the roof beam of the workshop to shift the neatened oak log upon a trestle for debarking.

Once done, they swung the log into place, securing it with two pegs hammered into the trestle. Liam dodged nimbly around to the master's workbench. Replacing the mallet upon its hooks, he picked up the two carpentry axes - one large, the other smaller - that sat upon the workbench. As Colm finished removing the chain, Liam handed him the larger of the axes. In companionable silence, the two began debarking the log to prepare it for finishing.

Liam had known Colm since before he could remember, having been raised by his hand. He hadn't known his parents and had always supposed Colm to be an uncle.

When Liam called to the older man by that familial title, Colm had answered him with a smack around the ear and a stern lecture about the difference between family and work.

Even so, the ageing Master was the closest thing to family Liam knew.

The sun rose past its zenith as the two worked. The heat of their labour soon told, causing both apprentice and master to drip from perspiration despite the cool autumn day near the Scottish border.

Liam worked hard, but his heart wasn’t in it. He chipped gently with the axe, planing the bark from the wood while daydreaming of becoming a knight and achieving magnificent and chivalric deeds.

His mind meandered to thinking of the local village girls all admiring him, riding into town, victorious and bedecked with beautiful armour and gilded sword. Of course, the local lads would stare enviously. Covetous of his gilded warhorse and obvious wealth.

The appeal of those dreams beckoned to him as he lost concentration. The axe shifted in his hand and skidded across the bark as the alignment left true. Liam started and looked up; red faced.

“Pay attention, boy.” Colm said. Had he angled the axe the other way, Liam would have cut too deeply into the log. That would have dug the blade into the pristine wood beneath the bark, damaging any future finish it may hold.

Liam did not mind admonishment from the gruff older man. He had grown used to the carpenter's brusque attitude. While his words were always severe in reprimand, his anger was like a squall. Fierce, but fleeting.

It did, however, cause many in the town to avoid the Carpenter when he was in a dark mood.

Colm was from Connachta, a devout catholic, and a regular drunk. But with a chisel and mallet to hand, he could carve wood as fine as a monk could draw letters in a Bible. This made his work sought by many great lords. Some even claimed he had built chairs for the King's household. An honour that - if true - made Colm an important artisan indeed.

To all who sought his services, the finery of his work was clear. The intricately wrought sign above the entry to the workshop stood as a proud testament to his skill.

Colm’s best paying customer was Lord Douglas’ Seneschal. He would arrive once each month to negotiate a new order on behalf of one noble or another. Some wealthier lords even ordered new furnishings for their holdings on a semi-regular basis.

On those days, Liam headed to the Bakery to loiter and play with the baker's apprentice, Duncan, and his dog, Lady.

Liam tried to have as little to do with the Keep as he could. Its servants and nobles being intimidating figures for the apprentice. Worse, their fine ways made him feel deeply inadequate.

When in town, he would spy the Keep’s servants as they carried out some important errand of the Seneschal or Lord. They rarely troubled to stop anywhere near the carpentry sheds. These lay far from the Outer Bailey’s coldly practical stone facade. Liam had caught none of the servants' names, nor had business with them.

And so, he had kept focussed on his apprenticeship, only socializing with the other common children when they let him. Despite his common roots, he never felt the urge to stop his imagination from concocting tales of how he would one day live within the stout walls of his own Keep. He imagined it just like the Lord's home.

Douglas Keep itself was a blocky affair. Each tower rose to nearly half again the height of the curtain walls, which were squat but thick. They loomed above the town, breaking up the skyline with their crenelations, standing four times the height of a tall man.

The main buildings of the Keep were barely visible over the curtain walls, yet to Liam they were wonders to be admired. They seemed works of mighty labour, unmatched anywhere in the world - not that Liam had been anywhere else. Still, he thought of the walls as tall and imposing, encircling the greatest keep in Scotland.

As the walls were so mighty, Liam thought it stood to reason that they would guard treasures and wealth he could only imagine.

The greatest prize defended by the Castle was not mere gold or precious stones - Liam knew. It was the radiant Star of Douglas.

The Lord's wife.

Liam had no words to describe her, but in his thirteen-year-old orphan mind, she radiated beauty and an ethereal grace. Every boy in the village held an unspoken crush on her, making her the immediate envy of all the younger village girls.

Her escort always ignored the boys’ open-mouthed stares of awe at the veiled lady. It was harmless admiration. So long as the boys stayed quiet and bowed their heads in deference to their Lord’s wife as she passed, the guards rode on.

Despite her status in the fief's hierarchy, the Lord was only hand-fast to the lady, having never had much time for religion since his youth. The Bishopric had not complained, nor had the people, as all knew the lady was virtuous, compassionate and beloved of God.

A sharp pain suddenly blossomed behind Liam’s ear. “I will not tell you again, boy. You will pay attention, or you’ll have nae feast tomorrow.”

Liam knew that was a hollow threat, more to get him back to the task than to make him fear hunger. His ears burned, not with pain at the rebuke, but with shame at his failing.

The work neared completion.

Liam, still daydreaming, cut too deeply and a splinter of wood sprung from the fresh timber.

"Go mbrise an diabhal do dhá chois!" Colm swore, rubbing at the splinter with calloused fingers, inspecting the damage. Liam only understood a bit of the Gaelic, but he caught the drift. "May the devil break your two legs."

Colm was ever inventive with curses. Liam looked at the damage. It was not good.

If they merely removed the splinter, it would only ruin the final finish.

Liam knew that to repair it would take most of an afternoon. They would need to prepare and set the resin that would bond the splinter back into place.

Colm glared at him. His younger apprentice knew better than to work while distracted.

Liam knew his daydreaming was unusual. He had been looking forward to the full week of rest granted by the Pentecost, and the distraction had led to his vivid imagining of hopes and dreams.

The feast marked the day upon which the holy spirit had descended to Christ and his apostles. Every year, people gathered at the parish church in celebration. There they received mass, along with absolution and Pentecostal spirit from the Holy Mother Church. The prospect excited Liam. He’d always felt love for his God and hoped that this year He would answer Liam’s prayers and grant a path to become a man-at-arms, and eventually a Knight!

Colm saw the shame burn hot on Liam’s face. They both knew he had no excuse, but sometimes restraining the dreams of youth was impossible, especially after hours of monotonous work.

The older man sighed, turning his glare into a patient smile.

“We’ll be fixing that soon enough, lad. As I prepare the resin, you’ll be taking a break! I want you to fetch some firewood from the forest. Take the splitting axe but be back before dark.” He said, gesturing to where it lay next to a basket of firewood.

“Maybe tomorrow the Holy Spirit will set your head to its task rather than letting it traipse through the clouds!” He chortled at his own joke, causing Liam to roll his eyes. Colm caught the gesture and raised the back of his hand in mock threat. “Away with Ye!”

Liam grinned and nodded gratefully.

“Yes, Master!”

While Colm could be a hard master, he was never violent beyond reason, and always eased the impact of any reprimand. Liam admired him for that trait. He’d always found those with an unchecked temper to others were also those who lost friends, and just as quickly, made enemies.

Still, Liam had no desire to become Colm. A path he knew with a deep certainty lay in his future, unless he found an alternate trade.

This was why Liam put all his energy into work. He had set his sights firmly on becoming a soldier, and one day - God willing - a Knight. To achieve such lofty goals, he would need all the strength he could muster.

The best thing about Colm from Liam’s perspective was that he always encouraged the young apprentices to be in motion.

One method the old Carpenter employed was to measure the firewood the apprentices collected for size and width. If he were unsatisfied, Colm would send the boys out once more to collect two bundles of the deadfall for every one he found fault with. Liam imagined it was knightly training and set about the chore with abundant effort.

The solution Liam had discovered was to only take deadfall from the larger branches, and that meant breaking the wood.

One day, tired of using his body weight to heave upon and break the branches off the fallen boughs, he had asked Colm to borrow his heavy splitting axe.

Glad that at least his younger apprentice was taking the work seriously, his master had agreed, but warned him to be careful.

The Master Carpenter knew a boy must be free to make the mistakes of a child in order to become a man, but a splitting axe could take off a leg as easily as a branch. Before letting the lad maim himself with the axe, Colm had walked Liam into the woods and shown him how to swing the heavy tool safely.

Liam still remembered. Have your feet wide apart and both hands firmly upon the axe. All cuts are to be made away from any part of the body and between the feet. Never across them.

Of course, Liam had still made the stupid mistake of running a finger along the blade to test its edge. He'd received quite a nasty cut. The scar remaining reminding him not to be careless with tools.

Fortunately, Colm maintained his workshop with bandages and medicaments of many kinds. He ensured all the poultices and potions he wanted were fresh-made and sanctified before he brought them from the nearby monastery healers.

Liam was rarely injured, but the few times it had happened, the master always spent considerable coin on ensuring he had the best care possible. Because of that, as well as the constant advice and training, Liam felt he owed the older man a great deal.

Apologising once more to his master for ruining the finish, Liam left the workshop, stepping into the sunshine of a bright summer's day. The Carpenter watching him go.

Now freed from the shackles of the workshop’s labour, Liam darted to the woodshed by the path to the workshop, grabbing the splitting axe from its home above the dwindling woodpile.

As he disappeared out into the afternoon light, Colm stared after his apprentice as the lad ran down the path towards the town - the opposite direction from the forest - he gave a sigh of exasperation mixed with bemused pride. He knew Liam would return with a good weight of firewood. The lad always did.

“He’ll do, Lord.” he said to the ceiling of the empty workshop.

**********

Liam stopped sprinting as soon as he’d made it to the end of the dirt track that ran to the road from the carpentry workshop. This ensured he could pretend not to hear Colm should he call Liam back. Grinning, he hurried down the rest of the small rise upon which the workshop nestled.

The seat of Douglas was a small town by the standards of any city-man, and those from Edinburgh or York would see only a village. To Liam, it was plenty big enough to keep exploring in his earnest and eager way.

To Liam’s eye, the shape of Douglas township appeared as a slice of pie. A brook that powered the saw and grain mill bordered it on one side, and on the other, a steep-sided ridge rose in height as it ran towards the keep. These features intersected behind the keep, giving the eastern wall a natural moat, and the western a natural defensive ditch.

Between these geographical features and North of the Keep, the town nestled.

Douglas’ layout reflected a hierarchy of importance to the Lord, with the most important traders and workshops closest to the gate into the keep. The further buildings were less important - or like the carpentry workshop - required access to other buildings that were too large for a prominent location.

Not far away from the carpentry was the town sawmill, which industriously rumbled in low resonating tones as Liam passed. Its waterwheel churning the dark waters into white foam.

The most distant building from the gate was the tannery. Sited a respectful distance away, it lay across the small brook that ran into and past the moat surrounding the keep.

As usual, Liam took a wide detour, heading first towards the Keep to find his friend.

The baker’s son, Duncan, usually skived off at midday while the bread was being kneaded. Although this was Duncan’s responsibility, the apprentice ensured he did an awful job of kneading. After finding a variety of stones, hay and rat droppings in the dough, his father used Duncan almost entirely to fetch and carry. Liam knew Duncan well for the layabout he was, but he was also his closest friend.

To tell the truth, Duncan was his only friend, and the two indulged their imaginations of as much as they could.

They could not for much longer. The church regarded the age of men as fourteen. This meant that while Town looked upon Liam and Duncan as children, they were only months from becoming men.

Girls, of course, were women as soon as their moon blood came in. No man expected them to be a wife, or to fulfil those duties. Rather, maids looked to the care of the younger children, amongst other chores. As they grew older, their household responsibilities increased to a point where they could learn the skills they’d need to spin, darn, and dye cloth. They also learnt to keep a house and raise children as their future husband - and the village - would expect of them.

Liam looked at the older boys - or “Men” as they demanded the younger lads call them - with not a little jealous scorn. They traipsed around the town like pheasants, all plumage and no meat. The other carpenter's apprentice was currently out of town in Edinburgh. He was delivering two decorative wooden wall carvings to the Bailiff’s residence. It had already been a fortnight, and neither the Master nor Liam expected him to return.

His name was Roger, and despite being the older and apparently more responsible apprentice, was a bully and slacker. He’d made Liam do much of his work on top of Liam’s own with threats of a whipping the next time he went to fetch logs.

The last time, Liam confronted Roger. Liam finally reached a height large enough to confront the bully, and with Duncan they had. The ambush and subsequent beating had resulted in a lengthy explanation to Colm. Colm - it turned out - was indifferent to Roger’s pain, only demanding that Liam apologise to him for the lost work-time Roger would need to recover.

Liam’s action had also resulted in a nod of approval from the gruff carpenter and a great deal of respect from the local boys - as well as the attention of some girls.

Duncan was nowhere to be seen as Liam looked into the Baker’s yard, and so he set off towards the Forest alone. It would be safe enough, the only danger being migratory wolves in the area. Yet these were a rare sighting that led to a hunt for most of the men in the town.

An event which had not happened since Liam turned six.

Of course, the kill for the last wolf belonged to the Lord. His wolfhounds would corner and maul the beast, holding it for the killing blow. The Lord preferred to use an axe for the job of killing animals. He used a sword for men.

From what Liam had heard of the Lord, he was an eminently practical man and had built himself a solid reputation as both a warlord and as a warrior in his own right. James “The Black” Douglas, Lord of Douglas and friend of King Robert the Bruce, was not a man to cross.

He was also not a greedy man and held himself to the same lessons passed on by Christ that he had learned as a squire in France from his mentor, the last Archbishop of St Andrews.

Liam wished he’d seen even a small part of the wars against the English. They must have been amazing. The clash of glittering blades, the dance of warriors trained to the highest standards of war. The honours of battle borne on shields bedecked with heraldry, the chivalry of knights, and the admiration of women everywhere.

Liam was still daydreaming as he made his way to the edge of the wood a mile further down the road. Around him, tall trees cast dappled shadows across the sparse ground cover. Pine needles and leaf matter crunched underfoot as he began searching for deadfall suitable for his needs. While wood in the forest was abundant, it was also illegal to cut any timber from living trees without permission from the King or Lord. And so, Liam and the rest of the village scavenged their firewood or brought fuel from the charcoal burners that plied their trade deeper within the woods. They also used dried dung when available, but few enjoyed sourcing that fuel.

Liam kept wandering, looking for fresh deadfall. It was always easier to find fresh deadfall than older timber for cutting.

Wood that had dried in the deep forest caused axes to bounce and skip across its toughened surface.

As Liam returned to the road that wound through the forest, he found just what he had been looking for!

This size of deadfall was a rarity in the woods. An entire tree had fallen here recently, despite the dense tree cover on each side of the road. To find an entire tree fallen across the road surprised Liam. Usually, tall trees would hang up on each other, only falling once a section entirely rotted through.

“Well,” Liam said aloud, “One should never turn down a gift from God.”

The axe cut deeply into the flesh of the wood, and soon Liam had built up a sweat. He kept up a steady rhythm as he heard in the distance a rumble of thunder. Liam cursed under his breath as he picked up the pace, carefully ensuring that despite the frantic swinging his axe kept aligned so the edge bit deeply. He knew he would have to rush if he wanted to return to the village in any condition to see the lady of the castle leave for her evening ride.

Finally, the axe bit through the pith of one bough. He had hewn a wedge out of the heavy wood on each side, so with the final blow, he had a solid wheel of timber. With this, he’d be able to section the wood into more manageable wheels he could push to town by himself. From there, he could break each section up further into three thick bundles of firewood. Ones the Master Carpenter would be proud of.

With a fallen branch, Liam levered the end of the thick bough onto its side, ready to be sectioned for the roll back to town.

Looking up, it surprised Liam to see six of Lord Douglas’s soldiers coming along the track, accompanied by the Lady of Douglas herself. She had left the castle early today.

Liam, covered in sweat and woodchips from his exertions, bowed his head as he knelt so no one would see his face. As the lead guard approached, he eyed Liam warily.

“What the hell are you doing, boy? Clear the road!”

The Guard leant forward when Liam did not immediately reply, thus saving his own life.

An arrow passed harmlessly by; its fletching rang loudly off the helmet’s aventail of chainmail.

“AMBUSH!”

The guard lost no time drawing his sword and pulling his shield over his shoulder, struggling with the sling that held it on his back. The man just had time to ready his arms in front of him.

Another arrow sliced through his chain hauberk and fully through his body, tenting the mail coif just below his neck.

Blood poured out of the guardsman's mouth as he toppled from the saddle.

Three of the guards in the lady’s retinue reacted quickly, charging their mounts into the tree line to seek out and slay their attackers. Two more men raised their shields over the Lady’s head, disregarding their own protection in order to ensure the safety of their charge.

Two arrows flew beneath them and struck the Lady’s mount. With a whinny of fear and pain, it reared up and threw her into the muddy road. Landing roughly in the mud, the Star of Douglas stared in confusion at the ensuing carnage.

Liam, too, watched, terrified by the scene. Before him, the fallen man-at-arms gasped and choked on his own blood, Liam knelt directly over him tried to offer comfort.

Their eyes locked for a moment, and then the man's face went slack. Liam didn't realize what had happened. He'd never seen death before, let alone a violent one.

Liam heard a second roll of thunder and a crash close by, although he barely noticed it. The sound of his own heartbeat muting all other noise.

A hard blow on his shoulder knocked Liam into the mud of the road.

He fell, grime coating his face and jacket as dark-clad figures moved past him.

They ignored Liam, but he watched terrified from the muddy road as a man knelt down and drew a dagger across the throat of the already dead man-at-arms. A trickle of blood spilled out, fed by gravity rather than the man’s heart as rain poured down, diluting the crimson vitae with the mud of the road.

The men advanced on the Lady of Douglas and her remaining guard.

Liam closed his eyes and prayed. He prayed harder than he’d ever prayed before.

He opened his eyes and felt shame when he saw nothing had changed.

And then a horn sounded.

And everything changed.

The blast of the horn continued for almost a full minute before strange symbols formed in front of Liam’s eyes. As he tried to recover, he vomited his meagre breakfast upon the mud and blood of the road. The roaring horn's blast was the worst pain he’d ever experienced. He could see others similarly emptying their stomachs or writhing in the muddy roadway.

He reached up to his lips, smelling a sharp iron scent. His fingers came away bloody, and his ears were ringing. The symbols before his eyes disappeared when he willed them away, but yet more appeared.

Communissima lingua scripta regionis:

Latinus

Lingua assignata

Ratio Tribulationis incepta est:

Experientia sunt Determinato.

Attributa sunt assignata.

Sic Titular sunt Determinato.

Deus te protegat in iudiciis tuis. Pars duo Apocalypsis Incipit.

Sit fortuna tua semper sit bonum!

He couldn’t read but recognized some symbols as letters, similar to those from the Carpenters’ sign. Whatever they meant could wait.

Finally, shaking his head clear, he saw the ambushers once more advancing on the Lady. Now, however, five guards awaited their attack.

The three guards who had ridden into the woods now returned to the road, fresh blood dripping off their swords, showing they had dealt with at least some archers. A soft glow of golden light seemed to emanate from their forms. Somehow, they had remained in their saddles and the beasts seemed unaffected by the horns.

The mounted warriors of Douglas formed up across the road to confront the new threat.

The two sides charged each-other. Steel flashed as the assailants fell to well-timed cuts, lunges and counter blows from the expertly trained mounted warriors. The ambushers' bodies fell into the road, either slain outright or screaming as they bled out in the mud.

The ambushers, however, were far from defeated. More arrows flew from a remaining archer. He had stepped out into the road and began rapidly releasing his black-fletched darts into the mounted force of Douglas armsmen.

Liam watched in despair as the black shafts slammed into the guards. Despite the archer's deadly volley, the Douglas Men at Arms fought on, slaying most of the remaining bandits before they reached Lady Douglas. With a final swing which almost decapitated one of the remaining five bandits, the last of the trio fell from his saddle, three arrows having pierced his body.

Now, only the two mounted men closely guarding the Lady remained.

Liam watched in frozen horror as a dark glow flowed around the archer. The bandit smiled wickedly as he drew his bow once more. Liam swore he could hear the screams of the damned emanating from the man, causing him to freeze solid in terror.

Why can’t I move? Liam asked himself.

MOVE! DO SOMETHING!

He couldn’t control himself!

Fear owned his mind, constricting his movements to mere twitches.

RUN!

This he could do. Lifting himself out of the muddy roadway, his legs slowly moved. As he reached the edge of the tree line, guilt filled him as he heard the Lady’s cry out in fear and anguish.

If I leave here without trying to save them, what kind of man will I be? He asked himself. What kind of Christian will I be?

He looked on as the four remaining assailants approached the Lady and her guards warily.

Liam saw that behind the Lady, the raiders had felled a tree behind the mounted party. It lay across the path back to Douglas. Thick pine branches blocking any escape on horseback in that direction. It was then he realized how foolish he'd been. The felled tree he'd seen as a gift from God was a barrier created by the Lady's enemies!

Liam looked on, his mind working quickly through the fear now. They're trapped! He realized. But what use can I be against trained enemies?

The Men at Arms protecting the lady ignored the false hope of retreat. Instead, the two remaining guards drew swords, interposing their mounts and bodies between the unhorsed Lady and her assailants.

Liam gathered his thoughts, remembering a sermon from long ago.

He whispered familiar words the town Priest had read from the Bible long ago. “Rescue the weak and the needy, deliver them from the hand of the wicked.”

He wasn’t sure why he remembered that verse, but knew it was the good and Christian thing to do.

It’s your Christian duty to help others in need! Liam thought, affirming the sermon.

Returning to the road, Liam tried to pick up the sword of the first fallen man-at-arms. Liam desperately pulled at the blade, but it lay trapped beneath the man’s body. He glanced around in a panic. He had no plan, no weapon, and no chance!

Suddenly, he realized a weapon had been within reach all along!

YOUR AXE, YOU FOOL!

He reached down next to him to find the familiar handle of the splitting axe.

The remaining guards had spurred their mounts towards the ambushers, who leapt aside as they swung their long polearms towards the mounted men. The guards defended each blow from the ambushers, replying with deadly accuracy and power, stabbing deep into the flesh of the enemy.

Blades now flashed red as trained steel slashed deep gashes through the heads and bodies of the foemen.

After their initial charge, Liam saw that only two enemies remained.

He cried out a warning to the guards as he saw what was about to happen.

One was the archer, who held his bow drawn, an arrow nocked.

Seeing the danger, Liam thought to throw his axe at the man, but the archer was faster.

He released the arrow directly into the back of one guard as he slowed his mount to turn. Drawing a second arrow, his victim toppled from the saddle with a screech of pain. The piercing dart had embedded itself through the soldier's back and out of his lower right side.

The man's scream ceased abruptly after he fell from his horse upon the shaft of the dart. His own weight forcing the arrow back into the wound. The dying man did not suffer long, however.

His mount, startled by the shriek, stamped its foot down once on the man’s neck.

The last guard saw his comrade’s demise and dismounted, knowing that his only chance to save himself and the lady was to fight on foot. The horse gave him some mobility, but in the confined space of the road, the size of the beast was a disadvantage, not a boon.

As he kicked free of his mount, the archer's second arrow release. It gouged a long red slash across the horse’s flank, causing it to buck and kick out.

Knocked out of the saddle by the sudden movement of his mount, the falling man at arms crashed into Liam. The impact knocking the wind out of the pair as they collapsed into the mud of the road.

Recovering faster than Liam would have thought possible, the guard snatched the axe out of the apprentice's unyielding hands. Clambering to his knees, the man twisted, sweeping the heavy axe viciously at the rapidly approaching foemen.

He had somehow kept his shield, placing it before him while swearing viciously as he got to his feet, his weight unbalanced by a deep limp.

Another arrow from the archer flashed out, this time caught by the shield. The impact was so great it pushed the guard back a step. Liam could see the arrowhead had gone right through the shield to stick out a good six inches from the wood. Luckily for the man-at-arms, it had missed his flesh.

Liam also lurched to his feet, searching for anything he could use. The impact had knocked the wind from his lungs, and he heaved deep breaths of air as he scampered towards the injured horse. Lying in the mud, he found what he was looking for, the guardsman’s fallen sword.

While it was muddy, the grip on the blade felt good in his hand, and he wiped most of the mud off the handle. As he did so, he glimpsed its craftsmanship. This was no guard’s blade!

It was beautiful, light and balanced, and Liam found it easy to wield.

He turned back towards the fight to see the remaining two raiders were now circling the remaining guard, separating so that they could both attack without risk of hitting each-other.

The soldier clearly knew this, and rapidly attacked the archer, risking a blow from the man with the polearm to his side. He winced as he lunged, heavily favouring his right foot. Whatever damage he’d done to his leg was enough to impede him, and he stumbled, barely deflecting the polearm with his shield.

As the archer danced back from the swing of the woodsman's axe as his partner swung his polearm to maim. The weapon descended.

The world shook.